The sure-footed predator had become a nervous, superstitious woman who kept looking over her shoulder.
And guilt? Well, guilt had done the rest of the work for me.
A week later, I packed my bags and thanked her for everything.
“I’ve decided I’m ready to go back home,” I announced over breakfast. “I think I’ve grieved enough in other people’s spaces. It’s time I faced my house again.”
She was incredibly understanding. Too understanding.
“You’re probably more comfortable there, Mom,” she said quickly. “It’s familiar. All your memories are there.”
She helped me pack my car, hugged me goodbye, and promised to visit soon. But I could see the relief in her shoulders as I drove away.
I stepped back into the house that had once felt like a tomb. It wasn’t haunted by grief anymore but by something far more satisfying.
Justice, I guess you could call it.
Or maybe just the knowledge that sometimes the old stories, the ones whispered in the dark by grandmothers who knew a thing or two, still have teeth.
My husband’s slippers are still by the bed, but they don’t make me cry anymore. They make me smile, like he’s still here in some way, still protecting what’s ours.
And you know what? I think he is.
